Love to Love You Baby

  * * *

  Jack only woke up as the plane was setting down at an unbelievably small airport somewhere in Arizona. He probably should have found out just where he had been heading before he got there, but at the time it hadn’t seemed important. The commercial was just something he’d agreed to do, something to help prolong the career he no longer missed.

  “Where’s Phoenix, or Tucson, or something like that? We’re in the middle of nowhere,” he said as he and Keely deplaned and he looked around. Flat... more flat... mountains in the distance. And heat. Arizona must have cornered the market on heat.

  “Oh, how lovely,” Keely exclaimed, squinting into the sun. “I’ll want to take lots of pictures. Excuse me while I go fish my camera out of my suitcase.”

  Keely walked over to the small pile of luggage as Jack turned in time to see his agent striding toward him, his five-foot, nine-inch, heavily packed frame decked out in a colorful Hawaiian shirt and a pair of khaki shorts that clipped the top of his pudgy knees.

  “Jack! Right on time! And smart, bringing your own entertainment. Now kiss the lady good-bye and let’s get moving. Brad—he’s the director—he says we can maybe get this done today, but we’re losing light in a couple of hours.”

  Jack took his agent by the arm and steered him away from the plane before Keely could hear the man. “Where the hell are we?” he asked as his agent pulled out a huge white handkerchief and began patting at the perspiration dotting his forehead.

  “In the great Southwest, if anyone should ask, Jack, in the great Southwest, and you just love it here, may even buy some land, put up a hacienda. It’s hot, sure, but it’s a dry heat, and it doesn’t bother you at all.” Mort looked back over his shoulder. “Why’s that girl following you? I’ll have someone drive her to the motel. Oh, and great taste there, Jack; she’s a real looker.”

  “She’s stays with me. And no more cracks, Mort, I’m warning you.”

  “Serious?” Then Mort looked at Jack. “My God, serious. I never thought I’d see the day. Who is she? Is she anyone important? Do I leak this to the press or make a formal announcement?”

  “Mort, the last thing I want or need right now is the press. I just want to do this commercial, get back on that plane, and go home. Make this easy for me, Mort, and you’ll have my eternal gratitude.”

  “Thanks, but I’m happy enough with my ten percent. So, who is she?”

  Jack sighed. “I’ll introduce you, but you have to behave yourself.”

  “And when don’t I behave myself?”

  “I don’t know, Mort. Maybe it’s the dozen phone calls I’ve had about rumors the White Sox are looking at me. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that, right?”

  Mort crunched up his mobile face as he looked off into the bright sun. “Jack, Jack, Jack. It’s necessary to keep your name out there, at least while I’m trying to line up some more endorsements. Right now I’m working a real sweetheart deal with a glove manufacturer that will remain nameless for the moment. You know how I hate speaking too soon; it could queer the deal.”

  “Jack?”

  He turned around to see Keely standing ten feet away from him, pointing at a limousine that stood with its back doors open. Grabbing Mort by the arm once more, he took him over, made the introductions, then helped Keely into the backseat, following right after her, to act as a buffer between her and his agent.

  “Keely, huh?” Mort said, leaning across Jack. Only other Keely I ever heard of was Keely Smith, the singer. You know, Jack—Louis Prima and Keely Smith?”

  “No, I don’t,” Jack told him, pushing Mort back into his seat. “And Keely doesn’t, either, because both of us were born after the Ice Age. Now, tell me where we’re going.”

  “Not very far,” Mort assured him. “You’ve only got one thing to do, and that’s to walk up to the car with this female model, put her in it, put yourself in it, and drive off down this long road. That’s it.”

  “That’s it? That’s all? I don’t have any lines?”

  “Nope. Somebody does the voice-over back in the studio. All you do is walk up, put the girl in the car, put—”

  “Okay, okay, I think I’ve got it,” Jack said, holding up his hands. “Then it’s back to the hotel, and back to Whitehall in the morning, right?” He looked at Keely. “This is even better than I’d hoped.”

  “Some things are,” Keely told him flatly.

  Jack immediately got the feeling he was missing something. “Hey, are you okay? I’m sorry I fell asleep on you.”

  “Yes, you did. Literally. And yes, I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with. Trust me, Jack, I want to go home even more than you do. This trip was a bad idea. A bad, bad idea.”

  Yes, he’d definitely missed something. There was enough of a chill in the air that the car’s air-conditioning probably wasn’t necessary. What had happened between the time they’d gotten on the plane and the moment they’d touched down in the Arizona version of the Outback?

  Jack wanted her to explain herself, but the look she gave him warned him off. They rode in silence—well, Jack and Keely did; Mort kept up a running monologue that touched on everything from his latest deal to the great fajitas he’d had for lunch—until they got to the site, where two red Corvette convertibles, three vans, about twenty people, and a mess of lights and other equipment all stood, waiting. All to film one lousy thirty-second commercial meant to air during the World Series. The limousine had barely come to a halt when one of the men broke away from a small group and came trotting up to talk to Mort while Jack was still trying to extricate his long legs from the backseat and Keely had already gotten out on the other side of the vehicle. “Problem. Julie’s plane was grounded in Vegas. Something with the engine, and she won’t be here until late tonight. We have to shut down, do it all again tomorrow. It’s a bitch and going to cost a fortune, but I don’t see any other way to—who’s that?”

  Jack watched as the man pointed to Keely, and Mort’s gears began to turn inside his avaricious brain. He could almost hear the whirl and whiz, the ca-ching of his agent’s internal cash register. “Who? Oh, you mean Keely Sm—McBride? She’s mine, of course. A new face. The face of the new millennium, as a matter of fact. I suppose we could but I don’t know, Brad. Revlon’s looking long and hard at her...”

  Jack rolled his eyes. Mort was definitely a piece of work.

  Still, Brad seemed ready to deal. “I understand your problem, Mort. And I’d still have to pay Julie; she’s union. But that wouldn’t make a dent in the cost overrun if I have to have an entire crew here for another day and night. I wouldn’t do any real close-ups of her, just your boy here, so she wouldn’t be overexposed for Revlon. I really want to bring this in under budget, now that I’ve decided I could. Let’s talk.” The director took Mort’s arm, walked him over to the shade beside one of the vans.

  “There’s a problem?” Keely asked, walking around the limo to join Jack. “Is there a problem? Jack, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked him as he leaned back into the limousine, grabbing two bottles of iced water out of the built-in cooler. “Not that I have any right to know. I’m just along for the ride, right?”

  He offered her one of the bottles, which she declined. “We’re both just along for the ride, Keely. This is Mort’s show. I just want it over with so we can go to the motel, maybe take a swim, and put our heads together about Candy without Petra or Sadie or the Beast and Worst of Bayonne under our feet.”

  Keely shook her head. “I don’t get it. Mort’s your agent, your manager. That’s fine. But don’t you take any interest in what goes on around you?”

  Jack looked at her, his thoughts still more on the motel and the coming night than on anything else. He just wanted the two of them to be alone together. Was that too much to ask? Apparently it was. “I pay Mort to do that. I play ball, he works the money. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Well,” Keely said, rolling her eyes, “if you don’t know, I’m certainly no
t going to tell you.” Then she told him: “First, you don’t play ball anymore. Second, it’s one thing to be trusting, but it’s downright stupid not to take more of an interest in your own life. Third—”

  “Okay, okay, I get the point,” Jack said quickly, to shut her up. He didn’t bring her here so that they could fight. Fighting they could do at home. “You’re right, I should pay more attention.”

  “Do you even have a ballpark figure of how much you’re worth?” Keely persisted.

  “Ballpark,” Jack admitted, looking down at the ground. “Big ballpark. That is, I know within a couple of million. I take an allowance and Mort handles everything else.”

  “Ohmigod,” Keely breathed, looking at him as if he were a helpless incompetent. Actually, she might have been looking at him as if he was the stupidest thing in nature, but he’d rather she saw him more as incompetent than just plain stupid. As long as she thought he might be lovable.

  “I don’t get it, Jack,” Keely pressed him. “You’ve already let me know you’re careful about spending, never wanting to be extravagant like some athletes. But now you’re telling me you don’t even know how much money you have?”

  “Look, Keely,” Jack tried to explain, “Tim and I signed with Mort straight out of college, with Dad’s blessing. Dad trusted him, and now that he’s gone, Tim and I still trust him. There’s never been a reason not to trust him.”

  “Oh, really? Tell me, Jack, how would you know?” Keely asked, sniffing. “I’m not saying your agent is a thief. I’m sure he’s not. But isn’t it time you started paying some real attention to your own life?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Yes, playing ball. I know. Now you’ve got a house, you’ve got Candy, you’ve got the rest of your life in front of you. Honestly, Jack, you need a keeper.”

  He glared at her. Okay, so they’d fight. What was so unusual about that? “I’m not looking for volunteers.”

  “Good, because I’m not volunteering.” She took the bottle of water from him, then turned and walked away.

  “It’s so nice to know you don’t care,” he called after her, then turned around angrily when Mort poked him in the arm. “What?”

  “We need Keely.”

  Jack shook his head. Mort needed Keely? Hell, he’d thought he needed Keely, except that the Keely he thought he needed was a whole hell of a lot nicer than the Keely who’d flown to Dipstick, Arizona, with him. “What are you talking about, Mort? Say that again.”

  “I said, we need Keely. Well, Brad does. The actress they hired can’t get here until late tonight or tomorrow. So it’s either call it quits for today and start over tomorrow or try to at least rehearse today and shoot tomorrow. Who knows? If they’re really lucky, and the little lady doesn’t freeze with stage fright, everything can get wrapped up today.”

  “So they want Keely to... she’d never do it.”

  “Ten grand, less my fifteen percent, of course. If she works out, I sign her permanently, get her all hooked up with the right promo, and, bam—a whole new career for the little lady.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes as he looked at his agent. “I only pay you ten percent.”

  Mort shrugged. “Time marches on. Yours is an old contract. I now charge fifteen percent. Everybody does, except the few who charge twenty. But, hey, I’m not greedy. You want ten, I’ll go with ten, but just for this one shot. Let me go talk to her.”

  Jack looked to where Keely was bending over, examining the interior of one of the Corvettes. Even after a long plane ride, even in this God-awful heat, she looked cool, collected, and classily, classically beautiful in a soft yellow silk blouse and a pair of slim, palest yellow slacks. Her hair, which had started the day in a neat twist, must have gotten mussed on the plane, so now she only had it pulled away from her face and clipped against the back of her head, her heavy mane of curls tumbling onto her shoulders.

  “Sort of Grace Kelly-ish, don’t you think?” Mort commented, also looking at Keely. “Just please tell me she’s an amateur and doesn’t have her own agent. I mean, I might stick with athletes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t branch out, get into agenting models.”

  “She’s an interior decorator,” Jack said, still looking at Keely, seeing her now as Mort saw her, and deciding he’d rather see her the way he’d been seeing her: in his house, playing with Candy, sitting across the dinner table from him, slowly taking over his world. “I don’t think she’ll do it, Mort.”

  “Why? She’s independently wealthy? She doesn’t need a windfall like this? Imagine the loss to the world if Marilyn Monroe had said that,” Mort said, resorting once more to his oversized handkerchief. “Come on, Jack. Just let me ask. We’re all going to melt out here.”

  That was it, Jack realized. The money. Keely needed money in order to go back to New York. An unexpected windfall like this would help her a lot. Did he have any right to keep her from earning that money? No, he didn’t. He didn’t have the right to ask Keely to do or not to do anything.

  “Oh, hell. Go ahead, Mort. Ask her,” Jack said, then walked toward the guy his agent had called Brad, who was frantically motioning to him.

  Four hours later, with the hotter than hot sun still hanging above the mountains, Jack wanted Brad dead, Mort dead, and Keely dead most of all. Oh, yeah, and the makeup girl, who kept telling him not to sweat. She could join that list, too.

  Jack would rather have blisters on every finger of his pitching hand than hear Brad yell, “Cut! Let’s do it again!” one more time.

  It had all sounded so simple. Not as simple as Mort had told him, but not brain surgery either. Stand next to the car with Keely, facing each other, holding both her hands. Step away, open the car door, help her inside. Walk around the front of the car, lightly trailing his fingers over the hood as he tossed the keys in the air a couple of times, get in the car, start the car, and drive away.

  How hard could that be?

  Hard enough.

  Take one, he’d been unable to fish the car keys out of his pocket.

  Take two, he’d gotten them out of his pocket, but then dropped them.

  That had started it. His confidence deserted him, and he began trying so hard not to make any more mistakes that mistakes seemed to be all he could make.

  Take six, he closed the door on the long, trailing scarf some idiot believed should be tied around Keely’s throat so it would blow in the wind as they drove away.

  Take fourteen, he’d... oh, hell, he’d forgotten what he’d done wrong that time.

  And all while Keely performed beautifully. She’d hold his hands, gaze up at him adoringly, then gracefully slip onto the front seat. Perfect. Every time.

  He was the one who couldn’t seem to get it right. And every time he got it wrong, everything stopped. Some guy had to come wipe off the hood of the car. Someone else had to move a light (why did they need all these hot lights, if the sun was still out?), or suggest another camera angle. The makeup girl would have to come running over to comb his hair, dab junk on his face, and tell him not to sweat.

  “Okay, kids, listen up,” Brad called out as the makeup girl was blotting Jack’s forehead after take twenty-two had gone sour when Jack tripped over the Corvette’s front bumper. “We get one more shot at this tonight or else we’re back here tomorrow, doing it all over again. Jack? You ready? Bottom of the ninth, with the bases loaded and two out. Let’s go for the gold, all right!”

  “Yeah, sure. Go for the gold? In baseball? What the hell was that idiot talking about?” Jack grumbled, and walked over to Keely the Perfect. She didn’t even sweat!

  “Jack? Are you all right?” she asked him as he looked everywhere but at her.

  “No, damn it, I’m not. I can’t believe I can’t do this. A monkey with a tambourine could do this.”

  “So it isn’t that you’re upset because they asked me to be in the commercial? Because Mort said you weren’t too happy, and—”

  “Happy? I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be happy? Hell
, I’m delirious, I’m that happy. It means less of my money will go in your pocket for your big move back to Manhattan, and that means you won’t have to worry that Mort might be robbing me blind, or that Candy will ever have to go without new shoes. Damn. You make money, you get to go back to New York, and I don’t have to listen to you ask me if I’m all right or tell me I’m all wrong, because you’ll be gone, out of my life. How could I possibly be anything but happy?”

  Keely pressed the back of her hand against his cheek. “Have you been drinking enough water, Jack? You have to drink a lot of water in this heat or you could get heatstroke, become disoriented, maybe even delirious.”

  Jack glared at her. Was she insinuating that he was making mistakes on purpose so that they’d have to go back at it tomorrow, with the model, and Keely wouldn’t get paid the whole ten thousand? And was she right? God, please, he thought, don’t let me be that petty. “I’m fine.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Keely mumbled, then took her spot when Brad started yelling instructions yet again. “Look, Jack,” she said, holding his hands, “just relax, okay? There aren’t any lights, any cameras. No Mort, no Brad, no nobody. Just the two of us, going for a ride.”

  She squeezed his hands, and Jack took a deep breath, looked into her face. She smiled back at him. “Just you and me, Jack. Just you and me.”

  “I like the sound of that.” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Keely? I know there’s still a lot for us to talk about, a lot of problems, big problems. I know there are times I want to tell you to mind your own damn business, and times you want to belt me with one of those frying pans you’ve got hanging in the kitchen, but, just for now, are you about as ready to get out of here as I am? Because I really want to be alone with you. Now.”

  Her brown eyes went all sort of soft and liquid. “Oh, Jack, you make me so mad... and then you say something like that and...”

  “I can’t help it, Keely. I like the sound of it—‘Just you and me,’ ” he said quietly, repeating her words, slowly pulling her closer, bending his head to kiss her inviting mouth. They stood there, hand in hand, sharing a moment, and then Jack helped her into the car, walked around it, patted the hood of the convertible twice, deftly flipped the keys in his hand, hopped into the front seat without opening the door. He looked at Keely, leaned over, kissed her again, started the car, and drove off down the road, Keely’s scarf trailing in the breeze.

  “And cut and print!” Brad yelled out as Jack drove past him.

  Jack kept driving.

  “Jack?” Keely asked, looking back over her shoulder as the vans and people were left in the dust. “Brad’s waving to us. Do you think we should turn around now.”

  “Do you?” he asked her. “Because Mort said the motel is only about five miles down this road.” He looked over at her, took her hand in his. “Or am I way off base, and misreading the signals?”

  “Um... what do you mean, Jack? Are you asking me if I’ll go to... I mean, are you thinking... oh, the hell with it.” Keely wet her lips, faced forward. “How fast does this thing really go?”